


Five Ways Sherlock Holmes’ Life Ended and One Way it Didn’t

by Sunnyrea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what the title says. I know the '5 times' format is over done but this idea was stuck in my head so I had to write my versions out. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways Sherlock Holmes’ Life Ended and One Way it Didn’t

**1**

Mycroft sits in the back of the cab, one leg bouncing impatiently. He normally has his own town car but he hasn’t quite yet reached the classified government rung where a car always remains prepped for his use; two more years probably. Instead he sits in a cab wishing he could order ‘faster’ against the impossible London traffic. He clicks his phone and stares at the text from Sherlock for the tenth time.

_SH: 02:31 - I think perhaps you were right._

Mycroft growls softly and clicks the screen to black again. Why must Sherlock be so obtuse now when he so often prefers to illuminate everything ‘unknown?’ Six words with too many ways to interpret, too many reasons why the small sentence only means bad things. Sherlock never thinks Mycroft right, never admits to it at least.

“Damn it, Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft mutters to himself.

Finally the cab stops next to the curb where a repulsive building stands in the working class sort of neighborhood Mycroft usually sends other people into rather than frequenting himself. Mycroft steps out of the cab and stares up at the most recent in a - so far - four long string of terrible flats Sherlock chose for himself.

Mycroft turns back to the cabby and holds out a fifty pound note. “Wait until I come back and there’s another.”

The cabby raises his eyebrows incredulously. “Really?”

“I can make it two if your sensibilities are offended by the request,” Mycroft snarls.

The cabby leans back in his seat with a frown. “Your business; I’ll wait.”

Mycroft sets his jaw, grips his umbrella in one hand and fishes the copy of Sherlock’s keys he made over Christmas when Sherlock let his guard down for twenty minutes because mummy found a stash of pills out of his pocket. Mycroft unlocks the barred door and then the actual door of the building and climbs three flights until he stands in front of Sherlock’s door. He stares at the number 304. He holds his hand up to knock then pauses, listening. He hears nothing beyond the door, no violin playing, no talking to inanimate objects, no drug dealer making promises or prices – no real sounds of life. Mycroft’s pulse ticks up a notch and he knocks loudly. Mycroft knocks twice more to no response. Mycroft curses internally and jams his key into the lock. 

Upon opening the door Mycroft first notices the rip in Sherlock’s leather couch, a long straight cut through the upholstery as if done by a knife or something similarly sharp and effective. Secondly Mycroft sees two needles on Sherlock’s battered, second hand coffee table surrounded by burnt matches and cigarette butts. Then, only third in line, does Mycroft notice Sherlock himself motionless on the floor.

Mycroft sighs heavily and closes the door behind him. “Not again, Sherlock.”

Mycroft puts his keys down on the table, well clear of the mess of drugs, and crouches beside Sherlock, the remnants of cocaine on the chair he sags against.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft touches Sherlock’s arm with his gloved hand. “Sherlock, do wake up, I would prefer not to carry you to the bathroom.”

Sherlock remains still and Mycroft suddenly notices Sherlock’s chest not moving. Mycroft rips his gloves off and puts two fingers to Sherlock’s neck. There is no pulse.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft gasps. He presses his fingers harder against Sherlock’s neck, willing a beat to arise but still nothing. “No, Sherlock, No! Not like last time. I won’t have it!”

Mycroft pulls the phone from his pocket and dials so quickly he’s hardly certain he dialed correctly. Then a woman’s voice answers asking what his emergency is and Mycroft shouts unnecessary in her ear, “drug overdose,” She confirms his location and he wants to throttle her for not speaking more quickly, “yes, yes, flat 304, hurry, he has no pulse!”

Mycroft drops the phone when the woman tells him to stay on the line and grabs Sherlock’s shoulders instead. He notices then with his gloves off how cold Sherlock feels.

“Sherlock! What did you take?” Mycroft glances around the room but there is too much to take in and he cannot control his breathing any longer. “Sherlock, you’re the one always after clues and you leave me this mess!” Mycroft gasps because didn’t he know this would happen eventually and a high shrill laugh escapes his throat. “Sherlock, you are supposed to be smart!”

He suddenly shakes Sherlock so hard the chair behind Sherlock skids back and Sherlock flops to the floor out of Mycroft’s grip.

Mycroft puts his hand to his mouth. “No… no, no, this can’t be it. Sherlock, you have to wake up. You have to hold…” Mycroft clenches both his fist and slams one into the wooden floor. “Damn it, Sherlock! Why!”

He knows the ambulance will not arrive in time. He knows the ambulance would not have arrived in time even before Mycroft rode up to the building. He knows there is nothing left to do, nothing left to save. Mycroft knows he now has a funeral to arrange.

“You idiot!” Mycroft shouts. “Blasted idiot! Why did you never listen to me?”

Sherlock’s face remains still, dark smudges under his eyes and bruises on both arms, dried drool at the edge of his mouth. Mycroft’s knees give way and he falls back onto the floor, feet nearly touching Sherlock’s. He gasps and tries to breathe steadily.

“Sherlock…” he moans and closes his eyes.

**2**

“Have you caught the suspects?”

“One of them, sir, but the other -”

Greg sighs. “Ran away? Come on!”

Donavan makes a growling sort of noise over the phone. “Would you rather a chase scene?”

“All right, all right, one is better than none, so -”

“Sir, there’s a problem.”

Lestrade turns the wheel and passes the car in front of him, nearly to the crime scene. “Of course there’s a problem; it’s a stabbing, Donavan.”

“Yes, but -”

“How’s the victim?”

“The victim is Sherlock.”

Greg flips on the siren and hangs up the phone.

Six minutes later Greg skips to a stop beside the two police cars already at the scene, crime scene tape unrolling in front. He jumps out of the car, ducks under the tape and jogs over to where he sees Agent Donavan standing.

“Where is he?”

She frowns and points toward the alley. Greg sees two people crouched around someone leaning against the wall.

“No paramedics?” Greg barks over his shoulder as he hurries toward the three people.

“They’re coming!” She shouts after him.

Greg crouches down next to junior cop writing on a note pad, looking somewhat uncomfortable. Even stabbed Sherlock apparently inspires discomfort.

“I told you,” Sherlock gasps, voice weak, “the second man will be at the restaurant. There’s no point to search his home, he won’t be there.”

“How can you know...”

Sherlock coughs and shakes his head. “No, no, no....”

“Sherlock,” Greg touches Sherlock leg, “don’t worry about that, we’ll handle it. Worry about yourself.”

Sherlock chuckles and the sound comes off more like pain than anything else. “Oh well... genius idea as usual, Le... Lestrade.”

Greg sighs but doesn’t rise to the sarcasm. Sherlock’s stomach is soaked in blood, his white shirt looking nearly black. A small puddle has trickled off to the right to congeal around Sherlock hand. Sherlock has a cut on his forehead as well and the blood has made a trail down his face. He skin is almost as pale as his shirt.

“What’s the ETA on the ambulance?” Greg asks the woman on Sherlock’s other side.

“I... I don’t...”

“Find out!” Greg snaps.

She jumps up and runs toward the cars.

“Too late...” Sherlock gasps.

“Don’t be ridiculous, not going to let a little stabbing stop you.” Greg tries to smile. “Who else will drive me mad without you?”

Sherlock shakes his head in a sort of flopping way. “No... it’s... too late.”

Greg glances at the PC beside him. He shakes his head then stands and begins to walk back to the others. “I think I can see the ambulance!” 

“You need to… the case... and the one suspect is.... I found out who the...”

“Sherlock, don’t talk, save your strength.” Greg looks Sherlock over and somehow the man looks even paler than a minute ago. Greg bites his lip and tries to appear confident. “I’m not just going to let you die, all right?”

“Don’t be... be ridic... you can’t help me, Lestrade.”

“Damn it, Sherlock!” Greg shakes his head hard and smacks the wall.

Sherlock wheezes and tries to sit up more

“Sherlock, stop moving, you have to let us take care of you.”

“I shouldn’t...”

“Sherlock, just wait, they’ll get you to hospital. You are not dying!”

Sherlock suddenly squeezes Greg’s hand so tightly it hurts. Sherlock stares at him as though he’s not quite seeing him anymore.

“I shouldn’t have gone alone,” he gasps.

Then Sherlock’s hand falls out of Greg’s.

**3**

Jefferson Hope stands directly across from Sherlock, identical pill bottles clutched in their hands. Jefferson pulls out his pill with a smile at the corners of his lips and stares at it.

“So, what do you think?” He looks up and the smile stays. “Shall we?”

He lets the arm holding the bottle drop and watches Sherlock as he speaks.

“Really, what’d ya think? Can you beat me? Clever enough, to bet your life?”

Sherlock stares back, looking for the tell that will prove he chose correctly. Jefferson looks focused, calm – no fear that this time his victim chose correctly. To this man every next minute could be death, so what is one little pill to speed it on?

“I bet you get bored. I know you do. A man like you, so clever.”

Sherlock opens the pill bottle, letting Jefferson talk, waiting for the gloating or the begging to the point when Jefferson breaks off the game and brings the truth. Sherlock is clever, of course, and he knows how flattery pairs with goading. However, he’s begun this game now and he intends to win.

“But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?” 

Sherlock holds up the pill above his head, letting the light hit the clear edges, looking at the small beads within, as Jefferson’s soft, steady voice keeps on. Sherlock’s own mind repeats underneath, ‘you are right; it’s not just a 50-50 chance, no.’ Sherlock is clever and Jefferson isn’t as smart as he thinks.

“Still the addict.”

Sherlock’s hand lowers slowly, eyes still fixed on the pill – quite different from so many in his past.

“But this – this is what you’re really addicted to, isn’t it?”

‘Yes,’ Sherlock’s mind replies, ‘yes, perhaps you do know.’

“You’d do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored.”

Sherlock stares at the pill and it feels like vindication, like proof, like the real rush of life everyone else seems to find in perfunctory relationships or identical pubs. This is the rush of the puzzle, the problem, the proof that he is right and always will get it right.

“You’re not bored now, are you?” Jefferson asks as he slowly moves his own pill to his lips. “Isn’t it good?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock whispers as he slips the pill into his mouth in time with Jefferson Hope.

They look up and swallow together. Jefferson smiles very slowly and watches him. Sherlock opens his mouth for a clever retort, ‘you wanted to see if I could beat you, well here we are.’ Then his chest starts to throb and his lungs tighten. He blinks and sucks in breath but suddenly it feels as though he’s under water. Jefferson’s smile widens as Sherlock’s hand gropes for the table beside him, trying to stay upright.

“All that cleverness and now here you are,” Jefferson says quietly as if he read Sherlock’s mind.

“But…” Sherlock gasps out. “I chose...”

“Wrong,” Jefferson finishes for him.

Sherlock falls to his knees, hands clenching and a vice around his chest. He feels bile rising in his throat, spittle leaking out of the corner of his mouth. He head feels so heavy and he falls forward, rolling onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling, Jefferson walking into his field of vision.

“No…” he gasps out, barely recognizable to his own ears as a word. “No, I’m not…”

Jefferson only smirks down and shakes his head.

“All that up in your head - that brain filled with so much knowledge and raw talent - didn’t you think that maybe both pills were poisoned?” Jefferson raises his eyebrows slowly as Sherlock stares dumbly up at him, no air in his lungs, “At least something which will poison everyone else.”

**4**

Sherlock stares straight ahead – not at the gun in his hand, not at the bomb vest, not even at John crouched near the floor behind him – he stares straight at Jim Moriarty, waiting. Jim tilts his head, mouth thin and Sherlock waits four beats for the choice to be made. For once Sherlock has no idea which way the path with lead but this time the knowing isn’t enough because there is one life here which he would rather not end.

Then “Staying Alive” in the bouncy, horrific 70s style of the Bee Gees begins to play.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow and he glances around trying to ascertain where the song originates in the echoing pool area. He glances to John quickly who frowns as well. Sherlock turns back to Jim just as Jim sighs noiselessly with annoyance. His eyes close dramatically then open again.

“Do you mind if I get that?”

“No, no…” Sherlock pauses, about to say ‘please, you’ve got the rest of your life’ since Jim seems to feel no fear from Sherlock’s obvious and serious threat.

Instead, Sherlock tilts his head while the song plays and glances down at the bomb vest, a vest which until about two minutes ago was strapped to the only person in Sherlock’s life who chose to be in it, who chose to stay beside him, who chose to be his friend. Sherlock clenches his teeth and looks up again.

“No, I’d rather you not,” Sherlock replies instead.

Jim raises both eyebrows only half surprised. “Is that so, Sherlock, jealous for my attention?”

“I think we have a rather pressing matter at the moment, more important than your most recent consulting arrangement I’d wager.” He pauses to smile. “More interesting at least.”

Jim chuckles. “Oh, most likely but a man should treat his clients well, shouldn’t he?”

“I haven’t found the need unless this is just your method of admitting defeat?”

The scale visibly tips as Jim abruptly frowns deeply. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone and presses end without looking to even see whom the call was from. He smiles manically again and tosses his phone into the pool to add to the growing number of electronics within the water’s depths.

“I’m all yours, Sherlock,” Jim grins. “Care to settle this little problem? I can’t have you around and you can no longer handle me. Just what do we do?”

“There are only two options for either of us, live or die,” Sherlock retorts.

“Seems to me there is a bit more on your side to be lost if we pick the ‘die’ option, isn’t there?” Jim rocks on his heels and grins. “Oh no, no, not just your life, is it?”

Sherlock hears a sharp huff of air from John as though John will jump up at any moment and leap across the distance to strangle Jim, sharp shooters or not. Sherlock swallows and does not move his hand.

“You put us here; this is your game.”

“You played right along, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cocks the gun. “Then there’s my move. If you’re so changeable then choose, win or lose, Jim.”

Jim chuckles very quietly and shakes his head. “Mr. Holmes, what makes you think that dying is a loss?”

“I would hope your delightful ringtone would be an indicator of your feelings on life and death,” Sherlock spits out derisively.

He has no more stomach for this banter, this game of Jim’s which is no longer fascinating or interesting or the perfect puzzle to solve. No, now it is simply mad – a madman’s deadly box of tricks.

“Is this you begging?” Jim whispers and Sherlock’s spine stiffens. “Are you perhaps the one admitting defeat because you must know, darling.” Jim pauses and his mouth changes into a snarl. “I am not backing down now and I am not letting you go.”

Sherlock breathes in sharply, tries to find an exit route, another plan, another way that leaves him - that leaves John still alive. Shoot first or be shot is all he sees.

Then John speaks with the solid, decisive voice of the army captain, “Sherlock.”

It is all the ‘yes’ Sherlock needs. He pulls the trigger.

**5**

“I don’t know the code.”

“We’ve been listening. She said she told you.”

“Well, if you’d been listening you’ll know she didn’t,” Sherlock fires back, hands still held up by his head.

“I’m assuming I missed something,” the CIA thug replies, voice edging further from insistent into angry. “From your reputation I’m assuming you didn’t, Mr. Holmes.”

“For God sake,” John breaks in from the floor. “She’s the one who knows the code, ask her.”

“Yes, sir, she also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.”

“Mr. Holmes doesn’t –“ Irene beings.

“Shut up,” the man interrupts.

Sherlock glances at Irene for a hint he knows – he hopes – she can pass.

“One more word out of you,” he continues, “just one and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That for me would not be a hardship.”

Sherlock stares back at the American and believes him – hard jawline, calloused hands, signs where bones have been broken in the past – not just an empty threat.

“Mr. Archer,” he does not even look away from Sherlock, “at the count of three shoot Dr. Watson.”

“What?” John gasps.

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock insists.

“One.”

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock repeats trying not to let panic sweep him over and cause him to do something rash.

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me. I don’t know it!” Sherlock barks and he tries to keep his brain on track – don’t think about blood spatter on white carpet, gun wounds to the neck – stay on track.

“I’m prepared to believe you any second now.” Sherlock looks over at Irene and John, desperate for her eyes to tell him something. “Three.”

“No, stop.” He pauses at Sherlock’s shout and waits. Sherlock swallows slowly and tries to stay on the proper course but Irene only stares at him. “I… I don’t…”

“Three!” The man repeats and Mr. Archer squeezes the trigger.

The gun bangs before Sherlock can move to intercept or John thinks to try anything, Irene gasping high in surprise. The bullet tears through John’s neck spraying blood all over the floor and on to Sherlock’s coat covering Irene. John makes a choked sort of noise and falls onto his face. 

Sherlock reacts.

Sherlock ducks his head and rugby smashes into the American in front of him hitting him so hard he slams into the wall behind him. Sherlock keeps his feet and grabs the man’s hand to get the gun. Behind him he hears Irene elbow the man guarding her in the groin – dull thump of bone on flesh, choked off male voice, squish of blood dug into the carpet. Though stunned, Sherlock’s opponent locks his fingers around the end of the gun and will not release it so easily. Sherlock pivots and digs his shoulder into the man’s chest shoving him down the wall so he loses his footing and falls. The force yanks his arm as Sherlock refuses to let that part go and his fingers relax. Sherlock cracks the man’s wrist and pulls the gun from his hand.

“Stand down!” Mr. Archer shouts suddenly, his gun pointed at Sherlock. 

Sherlock turns his head just as Irene moves to turn the gun she gained on Archer. However, Archer sees her before she gets the gun ready in her hands and switches sides toward her. He jumps over John’s still form and shoots at the floor by her feet, just missing his fellow CIA man. Irene jumps back in surprise so she relinquishes her ground and Archer has her covered.

“Drop it!”

The gun in Irene’s hand falls to the floor.

“Not so fast, Mr. Archer,” Sherlock shouts back as he raises the gun at Archer, finger dying to pull the trigger. “Perhaps you should drop your gun. I would suggest you comply.”

Archer’s eyes dart back and forth between Irene and Sherlock. The man on the ground by Irene groans then suddenly their leader knocks out Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock hits hard and the wind rushes out of him so for a moment it feels like suffocating. Sherlock tilts his head against the floor to see open, dead eyes. Before the CIA thug beside him can completely stand, Sherlock heaves himself up to standing against his aching lungs and shoots.

“Don’t!” Irene shouts a second too late as the man falls back, bullet wound blossoming in his chest.

Sherlock barely hears the shout, however, because a mere second after he pulls the trigger on his gun, Archer shoots too. 

Sherlock stands still for what feels like minutes upon minutes and then his knees crack on the floor and he lands on his back. Sherlock feels the blood staining his shirt and wonders how close his bullet wound matches his opponents’. He knows at least they share the same fatal quality. He wonders if Molly will do the post mortem, if Lestrade will manage the crime scene. Sherlock’s head rolls to the side and he stares at John’s hair, red blood turning into a mess of wetness and bits of torn flesh. He thinks this shade of red doesn’t suit John like all the others John wore before, all the colors he saw John wear every day, every hour they lived side by side. He wants to touch John just once more, if only he didn’t lie so far away.

Sherlock breathes out slowly, “John…. John….”

**Live**

Sherlock’s mobile rings in his ear as he stands on the edge of the building looking down at the street below. A black taxi cab pulls into view and Sherlock waits for the cab to stop and John to exit. Instead the taxi continues on through the street and off beyond Sherlock’s view. Sherlock frowns.

Then John answers his phone. “Hello?”

“John.”

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”

Sherlock peers down at the street far below looking for John, knowing he should be on his way back by now.

“Where are you?”

“Behind you.”

Sherlock jolts in surprise, whirling around and twisting his ankle off the edge of the roof. John grabs Sherlock’s coat in one hand and Sherlock’s wrist in his other, dropping his phone, to stop Sherlock from tumbling over. Sherlock’s foot, off balance over the precipice, almost sends him smashing split over the raised edge. John pulls him forward sharply off the edge, onto the roof, on both feet.

Sherlock stares at John, mouth open. “What are you doing?”

John shakes his head. “What are _you_ doing, I think is the better question?”

“John, you don’t understand,” Sherlock gasps, glancing up and around quickly for the sharp shooter he knows must be nearby.

“Sherlock, wait, it’s –“

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock backs up toward the edge again. “It has to be done. Everything they said –“

“Sherlock, no, stop. You don’t have –“

“I do, John.”

Sherlock heel hits the edge and he starts to turn. Then John grabs his shoulder, suddenly so much stronger than Sherlock ever recalls, and throws him in the opposite direction. Sherlock stumbles and nearly falls from the force of John’s toss. He stares in shock, John now between him and the edge – between him and John’s own life.

“John!”

“Sherlock!” John snaps. “If you would just listen to me –“

“They’ll kill you!” Sherlock shouts, panic starting because this is the pool all over again.

“Not with a bullet in his chest he won’t.”

Sherlock freezes and tilts his head. John stares back at him and waits. Sherlock takes John in, really looks at him – slight powder burn on one hand yet no gun on his person, not wearing his jacket, posture calm, no surprise at Sherlock’s location or clear intent.

Sherlock’s lip quirks. “Was it Molly on the phone or Mrs. Hudson that tipped you off?”

John grins. “Both. I got all the way out onto the street before I remembered Molly has only met Mrs. Hudson the once at our Christmas party so why would she be the one calling about Mrs. Hudson being shot?”

“And then you phoned Mrs. Hudson just in case.”

John nods.

“Hmm, perhaps an error on my part choosing Molly to make the call.”

“Well, who else would you have had to organize a feint for you?”

Sherlock chuckles, glancing around the roof again, still slightly concerned. Then his eyes tick back to John. “The hit men?”

“I went back to find you in the lab,” John’s face falls a little now and Sherlock sees the built up tension from adrenaline previously hidden in John’s attempt to calm Sherlock, “but you were already gone. By the time I figured out you were on the roof I heard Moriarty saying… saying that those you cared about would…”

Sherlock glances away from John’s searching gaze.

“So, I called Lestrade.”

“Ah,” Sherlock chuckles with false mirth, “and he jumped to the charge after labeling me a fraud, did he?”

“You know he’s always been the one who wants to believe in you; it wasn’t hard to convince him you were on a roof being threatened by the arch enemy.”

“But you shot your would be shooter?” Sherlock asks, surprised he did not foresee this possible outcome.

“Someone I know once showed me shooting first was quicker than waiting for the police.”

Sherlock laughs for real this time and flexes his shaking hands trying to bring his energy down. “So, everyone is safe… Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…”

“And Mycroft.”

Sherlock frowns. “Actually he didn’t come up.”

John laughs as well and shakes his head. “He might be a bit surprised with the police searching his house and work for a rifleman then.”

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, that just makes the whole ordeal so much the better.”

John scoffs and nods like a subordinate giving a report. “Wonderful. All clear to you then?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies.

“Good.” John suddenly plants his back foot and throws a punch into Sherlock’s cheek so hard Sherlock loses his balance and falls back onto the concrete narrowly missing banging his head on the ground.

“John!”

“You were going to jump off the building!” John shouts.

“Yes, but –“

“You were going to die for us – for me – off the bloody building!”

“If you would just –“

“You’re not to die for me, do you hear me?” John points a finger at Sherlock. “I’ve saved your life from enough stupid things you’ve done!”

Sherlock puts up his hands. “John, that’s true but –“

“Running right into danger,” John continues shouting, undeterred, “or worse! So you won’t just throw all my effort away! Do you understand me?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I won’t, John.”

John nods back brusquely and fists his hands again but obviously resists punching Sherlock again. “Good.”

“For the record,” Sherlock says, pulling himself up to seated, “I was never planning to die.”

John blinks slowly. “What?”

Sherlock smirks. “I was going to jump, John, but I wouldn’t have died.”

John’s brow furrows in confusion. “I’m pretty sure that’s what hitting cement from a five story plus drop will do to you.” John points to the ledge.

Sherlock chuckles again. “But not certain.”

“Sherlock, what exactly had you planned to do, learned to fly?”

“Perhaps another time.” Sherlock cuts John off before he can go on then holds out his hand for a lift up. “I will say, however, I am very glad that I didn’t have to.”

John stares at Sherlock for a moment then sighs, “All right then,” and pulls Sherlock up by his hand.

Sherlock breathes and feels a tingling in his arms like he wants to grab John close and never let him go. Instead he squeezes John’s hand once then lets go. “Dinner?”

John smiles slowly. “Starving.”


End file.
